


Marked

by Trin303



Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood Play, F/M, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Knife Kink, fluff with a side of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27248800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: Kinktober 2020Prompt: Blood play / knife kinkHelen wants John to mark her.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Kinktober 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962415
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Marked

"Would you ever mark me?"

John stiffens, standing over the table, cleaning his knives of blood and grime.

He marks her every damn day. With his teeth and his lips and, occasionally, a hand across his ass but that isn't what she's talking about and that utterly terrifies him.

Helen is sweet and good and kind, but sometimes John forgets that there is a darkness in her. Truthfully, he tries to forget that side of her and tries to live in the perfect world he has created in his mind where it’s just  _ them _ . Together. Living out a normal life. A happy life.

But something had attracted Helen to him. And John knew he was not sweet or good or kind.

She was attracted to his darkness. She didn’t blink twice when he came home drenched in someone else’s blood, nor did she falter when it was him who was injured and broken stumbling through the door.

She had to have a certain amount of darkness in her to stomach what he was.

John sets the knife down he has been cleaning down and wipes his hand on a towel before turning to look at her.

Standing there, in a floral sundress. Her glasses perched on her nose, a book in her hand.

“Hels…” He says, a soft desperation in his voice. There’s a weight to her nickname. A hope that she’ll drop it and leave it be.

But Helen was not one to walk away. She’d proven that time and time again.

She stood her ground, and challenged, “What?”

John just shakes his head, “I don’t think you understand what you’re asking.”

“I understand perfectly.”

He continues to shake his head, “Hels, you’re asking me to  _ hurt  _ you.”

She rolls her eyes, “I’m sorry, how many times did you spank me last night?”

“That’s different!” John insists, leaning against the table, “Smacking your ass is one thing, but cutting you open… that’s another thing entirely.”

"This from the man who digs bullets out of his own side to avoid going to the doctor."

"It's different."

"How?"

"I've been trained to handle pain and-"

"So you think I can't handle it?"

"No!" He's quick to say because God forbid Helen think that this is a challenge, she'll never stop trying to prove herself. John dreads  _ anyone  _ trying to tell Helen she can't do something because she will fucking do it, regardless of danger or stupidity. "I know you can. But I also know that you don't have to."

"But I want to. I want to understand."

"Understand what? There's nothing to understand."

Helen sets the book aside and leans up against the wall, pushing her glasses up to rest on her head. “You exist in this world that is so far beyond me I couldn’t dream of reaching it. I don’t claim to understand half of what goes on in the Underworld, but I know that there are obscure rules and bylaws and rites that you participate in. I want to understand it but--” She holds up a hand to stop him from interrupting, as he so clearly wanted to at her utterance, “But I know that would be too much for you. I know that you need to keep me safe and that means you need to keep me away from that world.”

“Exactly. I need to keep you away from that world and everything that’s associated with it.”

“You’re associated with it.” Helen challenges.

“And in a good and fair world, you wouldn’t be with me. But this place is evil and wrong and I am a selfish man.” John pushes off the table and goes to stand in front of her. He takes her hands, “If anything were to happen to you…”

“I’m not asking you to march me down to the gates of Tartarus or to slit my throat, John.”

He winces at both thoughts.

“I’m just asking you,” she squeezes his hands, “to consider marking me.”

“To cause you pain; to make you bleed!”

“To help me to understand a little bit of what it’s like to be John Wick.” She lets go of one hand and reaches up to cup his bearded cheek. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.” John says softly.

“Hurt is a part of life. How old were you when they made you get your first tattoo?”

She knew the answer.  _ Too young to remember _ . 

“That doesn’t mean we seek out the pain.”

Helen snorts at that, “I’m sorry, what do you do for a living?”

“Hels…”

“ _ Jardani _ .” She says it softly, gently. Whispers his true name in the way he had wanted someone to speak to him his whole life. “I’ll drop it, if it scares you that much. But I’m not afraid of pain and I’m not afraid of your world.”

John swallows hard and, fuck him, but he’s considering it.

“Besides,” she teases, “You have no problem with me being tattooed.”

“It’s different.

“It’s fleeting pain for a permanent mark.”

“Scars heal.”

“Only if they’re superficial enough.”

“Hels.” It’s exasperated and exhausted and she stands on her tiptoes.

“Come on, baby.” She whispers, wrapping her arms around his neck, “You can’t pretend that you don’t like the idea of marking me as yours. Physically.”

He hesitates and she pulls out the big guns.

“Please?”

He hates it when she does that. Completely breaks him down with a single word and a pout. “Fuck.”

She smiles and kisses him.

“We do this my way.” John tells her.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Hels. My way or we don’t do this at all.”

“Okay.” She says, “Your way.”

John swears under his breath in Russian and glances around the room. “Chair at the end. The one with the arms.”

Helen slips out of his arms and follows instructions, going to the chair at the end.

“You’re going to need to be still.” He tells her. “As still as you can possibly be, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” John undoes his belt with a shake of his head, like he can’t believe this is really happening. “Hoist up your dress.”

She does so, eagerly tugging it up. She lifts her hips, pulling it up to her waist and letting it bunch in her lap. John lifts her leg and ties his belt tightly around her thigh, pulling it tight like a tourniquet. Helen makes a small face at him but John just mutters, “Humor me.”

He stands and goes over to his knives. He chooses the sharpest one he has, the one that will cut into her flesh the easiest, the cleanest. 

Looking over, he’s struck by the sight. Helen, in the chair. Sitting patiently like a good girl. Her legs spread, the tourniquet riding up on her left thigh. Her pale, satin panties visible for him to see. A small little dark stain from her wetness against the fabric stands out as he walks back over.

John kneels between her thighs and places the knife on the edge of the table. The sight is a little much for him to behold.

Helen, yielding to him. If he asked, he has no doubt that she would let him bind her to the chair. Already, however, she is at his mercy. How delightful.

It makes him hard to think about.

Fuck.

She wants him to hurt her, however briefly.

He just wants to make her feel good.

Well, their relationship was based on compromise.

John leans forward and places his open mouth against her panties.

Helen sighs softly, longingly as he rubs his face on the fabric. He reaches over and grabs the knife. He tugs at the panties and slips the blade under the fabric.

It rips easily and he does the same to the other side.

"Really?" She asks with a smirk. "I liked those."

"I'll buy you new ones." He mutters, leaning in to taste her. He licks a long stripe down her slit, tasting her. Teasing her.

Her breath hitches as John licks again, burying his face between her thighs.

Helen brings a hand down, stroking his hair back, before John sucks her clit between his lips and she finds herself gasping for breath. Her grip tightens in his hair and she holds him in place as John continues to lick at her pussy. 

She leans back against the chair but John reaches up and pushes her back into place, looking up briefly. “Stay still.”

“But…”

“If you can’t stay still for this, you won’t be able to stay still when I’m carving you up.”

She whimpers but resumes her position.

“Good girl.” John teases, leaning back in. With a final look up at her, the determined look on her face, he buries himself back in her pussy. His tongue circles and flicks at her clit, mercilessly drawing her into pleasure. He nips and glides his teeth on her lips before sweeping his tongue back across her slit. Inside her wet center, drinking her down like a drowning man.

And Helen stays still, the only change being the grip on his hair and the hitches in her breathing. Every once in a while, he coaxes a moan from her lips and he revels in being the only man who gets the privilege of hearing that sound. 

He fucks her on his tongue, bringing her to the edge of bliss. He barely gives her a moment before he sends her over the edge.

She cries out in pleasure but his sweet girl doesn’t move from her spot, even as she pants for breath in the aftermath of his delightful torture.

John doesn’t give her any time to recover, letting her ride out the waves as he takes the knife and carefully drags it against the flesh of her thigh.

A trickle of red beads and rolls down her leg and he’s tempted to stop and watch it. The way it curls to the natural curves of her body. 

She gasps for breath, still on that high from her orgasm as he carefully carves into her. Deep enough to scar. Shallow enough not to cause any real damage. He’s knowledgeable of the body. You have to be to be an assassin and his days in the military and under the Director’s care taught him more about torture than any human should need to know.

He knows how to cause pain but this is new. Cutting into her while trying to do everything in his power to keep the pain to a minimum.

He glances up at her face as he raises the knife to form another small incision. 

Her face is flushed, her breathing is eerily controlled.

It would be. She wouldn’t cry out during this for the world if she thought it would mean that John would stop. 

In truth, it takes less than a minute to carve his first initial in the Russian alphabet. It’s roughly the size of her palm when he is done. It’s deep enough that it will certainly scar but the bleeding is light, all things considered. 

John swallows at the sight. His initial, his  _ mark _ , lining her flesh. Blood falling from it.

He sets the knife to the side, feeling almost a little weak at the sight. Helen reaches down and tilts his head up, making eye contact.

“Thank you.” She whispers, reminding him that this was for her. What she wanted. Relieving the guilt he felt at the intense pleasure of seeing her bloodied by his mark. 

Helen was his.

And now she had the scars to prove it.


End file.
